


this is how grown-up relationships work

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is actually seven years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is how grown-up relationships work

**Author's Note:**

> another [headcanon](http://feully.tumblr.com/post/58662847134/semenjolras-grantaire-is-short-and-enjolras-is)-turned-fic, surprise!

It started out like so many of their fights: over absolutely nothing at all. Not really. But like so many of their fights, it quickly escalates into something more. Though this time, even Grantaire isn't sure what this 'more' is.

Because Enjolras is standing up as tall and straight as he can, holding a graphite pencil over Grantaire's head. It's not fair because the fucking human tree isn't even on his tiptoes and Grantaire is actually _jumping_ to reach it. Correction: to try to reach it.

"Are you seven, Enjolras?!" he exclaims, though the fact that he's grabbing as high up as he can reach on E's outstretched arm with one hand while grasping futilely at the air with the other doesn't exactly make a case for his own maturity. "This is so infantile of you!"

Enjolras stretches his arm higher in response, and the smirk on his face is infuriating. "Yeah, well, I don't care," he retorts. "Admit you made a big deal over nothing and I'll give it back to you."

Grantaire grunts and jumps again, to no avail. "I will do— no— such— thing!" he says, his words halted with each fruitless jump. "That is an art pencil, not one for you to make notations in whatever _How to Overthrow the Government in 12 Easy Steps_ manual you're reading this week."

"I used it on paper," Enjolras countered, twisting away a bit as Grantaire got a little closer to the pencil for comfort. "You use it on paper. And whose to say my notations aren't art in the highest form? Political art, you might say."

Grantaire stops jumping, leveling Enjolras with a look. "If you're any kind of artist at all, it's a bullshit artist." He looks up at the pencil being held aloft, and it looks like it's at least fifty feet up in the air. He sighs and puts his hands up. "You know what? You're a child. I am not doing this."

Enjolras' face creases into a frown, his lips turning down in a cartoonish pout. "You're no fun," he says, and it's just the opening Grantaire was angling for. Because Enjolras' arm drops to his side and the pencil is within reach.

But Grantaire knows better. Not yet. "Oh, I'm not?" he asks, and Grantaire pulls Enjolras down to him by the front of his shirt. He smiles around the soft flesh of Enjolras' ear as Enjolras moans at the teasing bite. Still, not yet. Grantaire wraps one arm around Enjolras' shoulders, standing on tiptoes as he slides his lips along the curve of his neck. He can feel Enjolras melt into him, his little whimper telling Grantaire that the moment of his great triumph is at hand.

He's quicker than Enjolras is when he reaches down and snatches the pencil from him. Grantaire laughs with glee as he makes a run for it, though the apartment is only so big. That doesn't matter just then. He won and Enjolras is giving chase.

" _You asshole_!" Enjolras calls after him, and Grantaire doesn't need to turn around as he jumps over the overturned-crates-turned-coffee-table to know that Enjolras is smiling. Grantaire keeps it up for a while, dodging around the sofa, darting into the kitchen and almost trapping himself but climbing over the counter to get away. He even drops the pencil at one point, but neither him nor Enjolras care any more.

Grantaire's fatal error is heading into the bedroom. There's no way out, and Enjolras easily catches him as he tries to scamper across the bed to get to the door. They collapse onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughing madly. Enjolras straddles Grantaire and loosely pins his wrists to the bed, leaning over him and smirking.

"I won, R," Enjolras says in a low voice, pressing his lips to Grantaire's collarbone, which had become exposed in their scuffle. Grantaire hums and shifts his hips up into Enjolras, who lets out a strangled moan against his skin and grinds his own hips down.

As Grantaire gropes for the hem of Enjolras' shirt and lifts it up over the curve of his spine, he nods and pulls a mock-serious face. "Yes, E, you certainly did," he says. But when Enjolras sits up and finishes the work Grantaire started, tossing the shirt aside and pulling Grantaire up to remove his shirt as well, he can't help but think they've both won.


End file.
